31 A R.EPOR. TER. AT LAR.GE THE. COSTeLLOS CLeAN THE BOILeR M RS. NELLIE AVERS, an aged peddler of candy, is known to many of her customers in Peabody, Massachusetts, as "the fudge woman." One morning last Febru- ary, intent on business, she called at the home of the Costellos. After a little sales talk, patting the baby on the head, she entered into covenant with Mrs. Costello for a pound of fudge. That lady went upstairs for her purse, but immediately began to utter shrill screams. "She screamed something terrible," said the fudge woman in a later de- scrIptIon. The only other adult person on the ground floor of the house was a tempo- rary helper, a Polish woman whose name ought to mean something, since she was called Mrs. Sim bolist. She did not hear the screams, possibly be- cause she was busy with the favorite occupation in the Costello household: cleaning the kitchen boiler. And she was wiping her streaming eyes, as a result of trying to shine the copper with some curious he llbroth furnish- ed by her employer. 'She had never used this stuff before. ,,' . , '" . ,'ë', ' ::-;,:: ;::;: :::> ;,r \':' "'-' '.;:J < ;.n'/'" " ' '..,:i-\-},-,A ..< ...,.G t. Y .....i;. ,sr;tP* " -' ' ,"3 QI}jt:t ?; :f t#f.; : Mrs. Costello rushed downstairs again, exclaiming: "Bill's dead! " "And who," inquired the fudge woman, "may Bill be?" "He's my husband," cried the other, "an' he's up there, lyin' on the floor, dead. " "All of this," replied the peddler of sweets, with some hauteur, "is be- side the question. Here's your fudge. Where's my money?" "Oh, I couldn't," moaned the young widow, "1 couldn't think of fudge, now. With Bill up there dead-an' all!" " M d " O d h .. I a am, sal t e majestIC sa es- " b o. b . Th ' woman, a argaln IS a argaln. at s my last word to you." And she stalked across the street into a neighbor's house, where she ex- plained her ideas of commercial honor. "In 111Y day," said she, "people kept h 0 ." t elr promIses. She repeated this loud and long, and at last to reporters, so that her com- plaints reached the press, and her griev- anêe became known throughout New England. I1'or the fudge woman, like many another innocent bystander, had stum- bled upon tremendous events; her dim eyes had looked down in to the steam- ing pit of Sheo!. Bill's death had been sudden, its cause obscure, and in- to his house came neighbors and phy- sicians, then detectives and patholo- gIStS. B ILL, officially known as Captain Costello of the Peabody Fire De- partment, had returned early that morning from a night spent with a company of friends in the ancient rites of watching over the body of a de- ceased associate. He had been in good health and spirits, quite the life of the wake. Partaking of ham sandwiches, pie, and coffee at midnight, he left at 2 A.M.., promising to return in five hours. Even this short rest had not interested him, for-according to Mrs. Costello-as soon as he got home he embarked upon the great family recrea- tion of cleaning the boiler. Or, rather, of mixing the pestilential brew which- again according to Mrs. Costello-was their familiar and favorite lotion for that purpose. The brightness of their boiler was the chief concern of the household; they rubbed it by day and muttered about it in their sleep. Once ,. ',..' -, r!rf{/' -; .. ,'.' ;' . i' b:;\: <']J\i ; . q,-r';i:- "'i:.-X ' *..,.... ' !l j '., :::;:1;..tt: :'.'" <,' ..7} .\\:r '" ....,.r';/ I. '''':'{ "The serg"eant wants just a sin ple two (Right's, two (Left's, an' three (No Parking's arrangen1ent."